


Claustrum

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AU: Adult Mystery Twins, Gen, Stan Twin Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fall in the forest, Stanley learns something unexpected about his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claustrum

“It’s Monday, July sixteenth, noon, and my brother and I are pursuing the elusive Slender Man. We would have set off earlier, but Stanford wouldn’t get out of bed until I threw cups of water at him.”

“If you didn’t snore like a freight train I wouldn’t have had to sleep in.”

“I don’t snore like a freight train! I don’t even snore! Don’t listen to my brother, he’s not the leader of this expedition.”

“You can’t elect yourself as leader, Stanfprd. It as to be a majority vote. Look, two votes for me, one for you.”

“The backpack can’t vote.”

“The backpack holds our food, it’s entitled to a vote.”

“You’re such a dork. Anyway–”

“–Am not–”

“The Slender Man is described as – well, a slender man. Tall and featureless, typically seen in a black suit. It’s targets are usually prepubescent children, for whatever reason; maybe it likes to eat them?”

“Have you noticed that you suggest that in every recording? ‘Fairies? Oh, maybe they eat humans’, 'goblins? I’m pretty sure those eat humans too’.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re the one who jokes about them using our bones as furniture.”

“Yeah, but I’m funny! You’re just being paranoid–”

 _Click_. The end of the tape, and neither of them had thought to bring a spare. Stanford groaned long and loud while Stanley merely shrugged a shoulder; he had never been as invested in documentation as Stanford. With him, it was more of an afterthought. His side of their room was dedicated to storage of photos and unusually shaped rocks and items of questionable origin, while Stanley’s was covered in papers and tapes.

“Damn it.” Stanford ejected the tape, turning it over in his hands as if this would somehow extend its life. “I thought there was at least an hours worth of time on here.”

“There was,” said Stanley wryly. “You re-did that, what, eight times? Not including the times I did it. Are you seriously surprised?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to do it eight times if you didn’t keep on going on about Star Trek and Graham Masterton in the background,” Stanford replied, equally as wry. He yanked Stanley over by the strap of his backpack and with deliberate force, unzipped it and tossed the equipment inside. All the while Stanley struggled and whined, attempting to elbow his brother off of him, but Stanford was intimately familiar with that trick. It didn’t take much maneuvering to avoid it.

“Graham Masterton always warrants mentioning! The man’s a genius!” Stanley continued struggling, so Stanford slid him into a headlock. Out of the two of them, he had always been the better fighter. Not because he was physically superior, but because Stanley didn’t keep up with training like Stanford did. His outstanding (in the words of their trainer) right hook was useless against Stanford, who specialized in restraint.

“I’m not confident in your definition of 'genius’,” he drawled. His brother spluttered, indignant, and Stanford laughed and rubbed his knuckles against Stanley’s skull. “Charnel House _is_ a damn good book, though.”

“Damn good book,” Stanley agreed. Finally he seemed to concede, going limp in his brothers arms. “Okay, okay, I give. You win again. Now let me go, would ya? Your pits’ all gross and sweaty and if I get any closer to them I’ll chuck up on your nice boots.”

“Alright, little brother–” By a few minutes at most, but still. “But first,” he gave his brothers hair a thorough messing up before he released him, retreating a step to avoid the inevitable backlash. As anticipated, the moment Stanley was free, he lunged at Stanford, grinning from ear to ear, clearly having the time of his life. Stanford avoided him with ease, shoving him into a nearby bush and erupting with laughter at the slew of swears Stanley yelled as he landed.

“Nice try, bro,” he teased as he extended a helping hand to Stanley. “But you can’t beat a guy who actually thinks before he punches.”

“This winning streak won’t last,” Stanley groaned, using Stanford’s arm to climb out of the bush, dropping the backpack in the process. In what little time he had spent on the ground, dozens of thistles had embedded themselves in his shirt. Stanford grimaced in sympathy and gently began to pick them out for him. “Sorry, didn’t see those.”

Stanley, clearly confused, twisted to look over his shoulder at what Stanford was doing. “What? Oh.” He shrugged, jostling Stanford’s hand. “Didn’t even notice.” There were still thistles in his shirt when he broke away to retrieve the backpack. He gave it a quick brush down before he swung it back over a shoulder. “I’m gonna get you for that later, you know,” he assured Stanford, to which Stanford laughed and nodded.

“Fine by me.”

They made their way to a nearby grassy clearing and resumed their trek through the forest, chatting all the while. Stanford always savored their walks in the wilderness. He loved the trees, he loved their knotted arms and how patches of sunlight danced on the forest floor when the wind blew them. He loved the orchestra of distant birdsong they could never quite reach, and the fresh, organic smell of their surroundings. Peace was far from the goal of their journey beneath the canopy of trees, but it was what he found there.

Which made what happened next quite ironic.

The ground beneath their feet began to take on a soft quality, like walking through mounds of freshly shoveled dirt. Not long after this realization was made had they taken one step too far and simply plummeted through it. Through the dirt, past rotten slates of wood and limestone, and into a bed of dry leaves and plantation.

They were both slow to rise after that lengthy a drop. Stanford was the first to find his feet, dragging himself up by the heavily decayed wooden paneling; he would have made an attempt to climb his way to freedom, but as it crumbled beneath his fingers at the slightest hint of pressure, he didn’t think it wise.

Stanley was next, dragging himself into a corner with an audible groan. He too seemed to realize they wouldn’t be ascending via the paneling anytime soon. Either that, or,

“Stan, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.” Stan’s voice was very calm, very quiet. Too quiet to be telling the truth.

“Don’t bullshit me if you’re hurt,” he warned his brother as he set his palms on the wall. The light from above didn’t reach the landing of what must have been at least a twelve foot drop, so Stanford had to feel his way across in order to reach his brother. It was ten steps from wall to wall, he noted. When he felt his boot nudge something bulky and hard and distinctly human, he knelt down and felt around for Stanley’s arm. Eventually, he found it. “Stanley…?”

“I’m fine,” Stanley repeated. Again, he was very calm and very quiet, if a little less steady than before. Stanford didn’t like that. It wasn’t the voice of someone comfortable with their predicament, it was the voice of someone curling in on themselves in panic. Having been the latter on several occasions, he knew it well.

He made a discreet attempt to feel for injuries. Stanley didn’t exactly make it easy, stiff and unpliable as he was. He managed to ascertain there was nothing wrong with his upper body, though. No penetrations, no broken bones. He didn’t sound as if he were injured, either.

“Stanley, you need to tell me what’s wrong.” His words were gentle, but firm. He knew from experience it was what Stanley responded to, courtesy of their strict father.

“It’s dark,” was Stanley’s response. The way he spoke was reminiscent of the little boy who’d spent much of their upbringing crawling into either his or their parents’ bed out of fear. It would have been heartwarming were it not so alarming.

“I know it is, buddy.” Stanford gently squeezed his shoulder. “But we’re not going to be in here long, don’t worry.”

“But – but what if we can’t get out?” The volume of Stanley’s voice started to increase. Beneath the veil of darkness, Stanford just knew Stanley’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, no one’ll find us if we can’t get out.”

“No, we’re going to be–”

“We’ll die of dehydration.”

“Stanford–”

“You can live longer without food than you can water and I only packed enough water for today.”

The unintelligible nonsense continued to spew forth, growing in volume and pitch. Any louder, and Stanley might as well have been screaming. He took a deep breath to repress the urge to follow suit in panicking and gently set a hand on Stanley’s mouth, silencing him.

“Stop.”

The babbling ceased. He didn’t remove his hand until he was certain Stanley would let him speak.

“There we go,” he murmured as he slid his hand down to Stanley’s shoulder. It was trembling. “We’re one, maybe two hours from the Shack, and people visit that place every day. Someone is bound to inform the authorities we’re missing. If it comes to it, when we hear the search party we’ll start yelling, but we’re resourceful guys. I’m sure we can find some means of reaching the exit.” He neglected to mention it could take hours, if not days for a search party to be sent out, but his goal here wasn’t to be realistic. It was to calm his brother down. “Plus, we have food and water and– a torch! We could use a little light, right?”

The trembling increased in intensity and Stanley’s breaths sporadically hitched, catching in his throat. Stanford realized with some horror that it was because Stanley was trying to muffle the sound of himself sobbing. There was no way a brother could hear their twin sob and not pull them into a rib-crushing hug. He did so and cupped Stanley’s head to his shoulder, making soft hushing sounds.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” he murmured into Stanley’s hair, running soothing circles into his scalp with his fingers; it was something Stanley had enjoyed when they were children. He seemed partial to it now, too, if the slowing of his sobs was any indication.

“I’m a fucking idiot, 'Ford.” Stanley’s voice was barely above a whisper.

There was no way he couldn’t give his brother another squeeze after hearing that. “No you’re not,” he insisted.

“I am.” Stanley sniffed. “The torch was attached to my belt. I landed on it.”

Well, as far as revelations went, that wasn’t too bad. Stanford chuckled and gently eased them apart. “Jesus, I thought you’re gonna say you’d broken something that wasn’t detachable.” Thank god that wasn’t the case. He dropped back onto his heels. “That’s okay. Give me a feel, I’ll see if it’s salvageable.”

“It’s behind me,” Stanley mumbled. He didn’t seem to want to unfurl, which made sense. The man was rapidly losing control of faculties with how frightened he was and were he to try to move, who knew what would happen.

Stanford felt his way back around to the wall and touched around Stanley’s belt until he came upon the torch, which was indeed broken. It felt like it had taken the brunt of the impact. The lens was shattered, the bulb missing. Even if he had the tools he wouldn’t have been able to fix it, not with a lack of light.

He checked that there was no possible way to reconstruct it before he discarded it, carefully setting it aside. “Okay, you’re right. It’s broken.” There was that hitching sound again. Stanford was quick to add, “But we still have food and water, so that’s something.”

“I dropped the backpack.” He felt Stanley gesture towards the middle of the room. “It’s where I fell.”

“Do you want me to get it?”

A pause. “No.”

Stanford hesitated before he asked, “Do you want me to stay here?” He didn’t want to embarrass his brother.

There was another brief silence before Stanley answered. “Yes.”

That was that decided, then. He slid into place next to his twin and curled an arm around his trembling shoulders, holding him close. They generally didn’t do this, and hadn’t done since they were children, but he couldn’t leave a man so terrified he was literally shaking in his clothes without some means of anchoring himself.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you while I’m here.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Stanley’s forehead, catching his messy hair on his lips. “I’ll make sure we get out.”

Stanley’s response was a noncommittal grunting sound. He hadn’t expected anything more than that, though.

“I never knew you were claustrophobic,” he continued in an attempt to be conversational. He hadn’t actually thought Stanley would respond, so he was surprised when Stanley grumbled, “I don’t like dark small spaces. Reminds me of school. Y'know, the lockers and janitor closet…”

“Oh.”

Stanley had been the primary source of entertainment of bullies as a child. So small, short, and scrawny; he had fit in lockers and closets as if he’d belonged there. When Stanley hadn’t managed to free himself or yell until a teacher freed him, the responsibility had fallen to Stanford, so he knew how badly the ordeal had affected his brother. After Stanley had mastered boxing, he had thought those days over for good. Evidently the cruelty of their peers was still haunting him well past their childhood. He didn’t blame him. Children’s minds were wrought with imagination. They could turn bright rooms into beautiful luminous enchanted forests and dark rooms into lairs of beats and monsters. Who knew what terrors Stanley’s adolescent mind had produced while trapped in the dark.

“Did you, uh…” He hesitated before he continued, “Want to talk about it?” Chances were, Stanley didn’t. Enough time hadn’t passed for him to be comfortable with talking about his childhood tribulations.

So it was surprising when he felt Stanley shrug rather than shake his head. “Do you want me to talk about it?”

“I’ve been asking you 'what’s wrong’ for thirty years, so yeah, I do.”

“Alright,” Stanley said simply, and Stanford balked. This was an unexpected – but not unwelcome development. “You know how, when I got sick with laryngitis, I would be bedridden with a fever and could only keep down soup?”

“Yeah?” He already didn’t like the direction this was going. He didn’t like the way Stanley’s breath was beginning to hitch again, either.

“When we were in sixth grade, I started feeling sick during a forth period. Just nausea and the occasional hot flush, and it was nearly lunch, so I thought I’d wait until I’d eaten something before I assumed I’d have to go home. If I went home, I knew I’d be bored as hell because you wouldn’t be there.”

A lengthy silence lingered. “…And?” Stanford encouraged.

Stanley audibly swallowed. “And part way through lunch, I started to feel terrible, all hot and feverish. So I headed for the nurses office to get a ride home, and on my way, those seniors – you know the ones – they grabbed me and shoved me into the janitors closet. John’d forgotten to lock it before he went off shift, so I was in there for at least two hours.” Stanley’s shivering ascended into violent shaking. “I’d been in lockers for longer, but I felt so fucking sick. I vomited twice and I couldn’t stop crying. I’d passed out before they got me out.”

Stanford gave a sharp inhale. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “I knew you’d been thrown in lockers on more than one occasion, but… Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Maybe not, but Stanford still felt guilty. “It’s ridiculous,” Stanley continued in a whisper. “I’m thirty, I shouldn’t be scared.” The air moved in a way that suggested he was pulling his limbs in towards himself, forcing himself into a miserable little ball.

Stanford felt his stomach lurch in sympathy. “You’re a smart guy, Stanley, even if you call me the nerd. You know it’s not something you can help.”

This didn’t appear to comfort Stanford any, who heaved a sigh. “Whatever.”

Stanford sighed along with him, leaning his head against the mossy paneling behind them. “Hey…” He began tentatively. “Remember when we were kids, lying side by side in bed after watching a scary movie?” One which both had known, logically, wasn’t real, but struggled to comprehend that in the darkness of their shared bedroom. “We’d whisper to each other about anything but the things we were afraid of until we fell asleep, and we always woke up warm and well rested.”

“Mmm.”

“Mom would make us up a breakfast of pancakes and eggs the morning after and give us a cuddle before we went to play outside. Then we’d bike around the neighborhood and play on the train tracks, even though we got in trouble for it. We were such troublemakers as kids, weren’t we.”

“You were more of a troublemaker than I ever was.”

Stanford chuckled. “I can’t deny that. Remember that time we found a really old car with broken steering and drove it around the backstreets at night? It’d suddenly pull us to the left all the time, so we had to keep on correcting it, and when dad found out, boy, our hides were aching for weeks!”

This time Stanley was the one who chuckled, strained and soft, but it was still a chuckle. A sign he was recovering some degree of control over his fear. “Mr. White never did find out what we did to his mailbox, did he? And that was even with the tire tracks on his lawn.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t run out and see us seeing as you screamed as you rammed into it.”

“Pff, well, you flailed! I probably wouldn’t have screamed if you hadn’t been acting like you were having a seizure just because I’d gone over the curb!”

“I thought you were gonna ram into a house, man.” He playfully elbowed Stanley, grinning. “My flailing was justified.”

Much to his relief, Stanley elbowed him back. His efforts to calm Stanley appeared to be working. “I’ll admit to that, but you still drove a scooter without a license for two years,” Stanley retorted.

“The police didn’t pull me over once in those two years, so they can’t have cared that much. Besides, I used to give you rides on the back all the time.”

“Ugh,” his brother groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“If you hadn’t spent your money on junk all the time, you might have been able to get your own scooter.”

“It wasn’t junk, it was gonna earn me more money!”

“Supposed to, you mean. Because it didn’t.”

“Not even once, I know.” Now there was the voice of a man not incapacitated by fear, but reminiscing on good times. “Those were the days, especially when I managed to drag you into a scheme.”

“Now _I_ do the dragging.”

“Only if it’s before noon. You know I’m nocturnal.”

The sun was setting and the hint of light at the entrance of their mossy prison beginning to fade, but neither brother paid it any mind. They chatted for some hours until the combination of darkness, warmth, and boredom led them to slumber.

Both were awoken some time later by the shrill cry of a wild bird just beyond their tufted prison. Stanley had spent most of his nap drooling on Stanford’s shoulder, leaving a wet patch the size of a foot on his shirt. After their earlier conversation, Stanford didn’t have the heart to push him off, though he did shudder in disgust.

“S'morning?” questioned a lethargic Stanley.

Stanford saw nothing when he looked up at the ceiling. “It’s night. We probably didn’t sleep more than a few hours.”

“I could sleep a few more,” Stanley said as he flopped down into his brothers lap, stretching out upon it.

“Too bad.” A little slap to his brothers forehead got him upright again, albeit slowly and reluctantly. “It’s about time we tried something to get out of here.”

“Like what?” Stanley was back against the wall, slouching into Stanford’s side. “Trying to reach the top? Because I ain’t letting you stand on my shoulders.” He received a prod to the stomach. “You’ll fall and land on me.”

Stanford swatted his hand away. “I think you mean you’d drop me and I’d break my neck.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“Fine.”

The walls would be difficult to scale in their current condition. That didn’t mean it was impossible, just unwise. Perhaps if they started from a higher point, one of them would be able to reach the top. Or Stanley would be able to reach the top, anyway; that wasn’t debatable, all things considered. His brother had to be the first one out.

He felt Stanley beginning to stand and followed suit, grasping one of the panels as he rose. It came away in his hand when he went to let go, and then he frowned, the length of wood in hand, reconsidering using the walls as a route of escape.

“What the hell was that?” His brothers voice asked.

He dropped the wood and brushed his hands off on his thighs. “The end of plan A.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Still in the process of thinking of it.” He glanced to Stanley, or where he estimated Stanley to be. “How’re you holding up, anyway?”

“Huh? Oh, right. The claustrophobia.” The rest of his response didn’t come until after a significant silence. “I guess I did freak out a lil’ earlier, but I’m fine now. Coping, if you want the honest truth.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bullshit your answer,” Stanford commented.

“I did the equivalent of pissing my pants in front of you, there’s no point in trying to bullshit my answer.”

For what few vulnerabilities Stanley displayed, he really was too hard on himself. Something Stanford attributed to their father encouraging the manly man stereotype throughout their upbringing. He hadn’t been a bad man, just old fashioned.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reassured his brother. “Hell, I’ve seen you _actually_ piss your pants, and you weren’t even a kid at the time. Just roaringly drunk.”

“Thank you,” Stan said dryly. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

“Hey, I haven’t mentioned it in five years.” He waggled a finger at Stanley, fully aware it couldn’t be seen. “That’s incredible considering how easy it would be to make fun of you for it.”

He was pretty sure the brief silence that followed was Stanley rolling his eyes. “I appreciate the temporary effort. Now can we get off th’ subject?”

“Glad to.” Stanford resumed looking at the ceiling. Still dark. “We have more important things to talk about, such as how the hell we’re gonna get out of here.”

“Have you checked behind the walls?” By the sound of things, Stanley had already begun feeling around. “This place might actually lead somewhere.”

The room was small enough that, with their combined efforts, they had searched it from nook to cranny within ten minutes. Beneath the layers of rotted wood was dirt, loose enough that Stanford wouldn’t chance breaking away a wall on the off chance he would uncover a hidden passageway. That they were pulling away bits and pieces of the walls in order to feel past the threshold was perilous enough.

His hands were covered in dirt and muck when he finally conceded defeat and returned to his former spot to brainstorm. Stanley, who had finished searching for an exit some time ago, returned to his side, leaning into his shoulder. The fact Stanley was so insistent on physical contact was terribly endearing and very much a rarity, but he made no mention of it for fear it would make Stanley stop.

“Well, now I smell like snails and dirt,” Stanley said. Stanford could feel the air move as he picked dirt out from under his nails. “What’s next?”

“We could make a rope by stripping apart the backpack…?”

“Yeah, nah. Let’s not do that.”

Stanford gave a sheepish laugh. “We could use the bag to give us a little extra height, then?”

“Even worse. Try again– wait!” Stanley jumped away from him, presumably in excitement and not fear. Just in case, Stanford took a preemptive step away from the wall.

“Had a stroke of genius?” he asked hopefully.

Stanley’s answer was to toss a plank of wood at him, “Get stacking.” Due to his current lack of hand eye coordination, he managed to smack the piece of wood to the floor rather than catch it.

“Did you really need to do that?”

“Yes.”

Stanford snorted and stooped to pick up the plank, fighting against the temptation to smack his brother with it as he felt his way over. There was already a sizable stack of dirt and wood when he went to set the plank down on Stanley’s pile. This plan was looking promising.

They were smart enough, or at least, Stanford was cautious enough to make sure they didn’t create too many holes in their tenuous support as they collected bits of wood. Too much pressure on the walls and they would end up being bowled down by a cave in. He didn’t even want to imagine how poorly Stanley would respond to that sort of catastrophe.

It wasn’t long before the pile was large enough to give them a significant boost.

“Well, ready to go?” Stanford asked while giving the pile a testing nudge with his foot. It wasn’t exceptionally solid, but considering their lack of alternate resources, it would have to do.

“Just gotta get off these shoes.” There was a gentle 'plop’ as each one was removed, and then Stanford felt Stanley climbing onto his back and up to his shoulders. He groaned once Stanley was standing; his brother wasn’t exactly light.

“Can –” A breath. “Can you reach?” Stanley bounced, and he grimaced. “Please say you can, because you’re digging your heels into my neck.”

“Yeah, I got my hands over. Just need ta, nnng…” More bouncing. God, Stanley was going to render him paraplegic at this rate. He was already developing an ache. “Trying to grab somethin’ to pull myself up with.”

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “Just hurry up!”

“Try pushing me up by my feet.”

“Hell no! Are you trying to get me killed!?” At last, Stanley jumped off of his shoulders – sending him reeling back – and clambered up onto the grassy bank above, sending dirt and leaves and grass pouring down as he did.

“Ahahah!” Laughter erupted from outside the hole, followed by a quiet, “Man, I have no idea where we are.”

“Hey!” Stanford called, tossing the bag up through the entrance. He was rewarded with a thump and yelp. Whoops. “Pull me up with the straps!”’

“You’re lucky I don’t chuck it down at your head,” he heard Stanley grumble as the bag was lowered towards him.

They were both covered in dirt and muck, heavily disheveled, and in need of a good night’s sleep by the time they found their way back to the shack and near crawled their way in through the front door. Neither of them bothered showering before they collapsed on the couch, Stanley reaching for the remote, while Stanford cuddled into a corner.

“Low volume,” Stanford mumbled, as if nothing of consequence had occurred. Stanley pat Stanford’s ankle and did as he was asked.


End file.
